


Behold the Fear Reaper

by wouldyouliketoseemymask



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wouldyouliketoseemymask/pseuds/wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: Years spent dedicated to the study of psychopharmacology had taught him how to rip apart a mind with chemicals, but Crane found that there was no terror more beautiful than the look of pure, paralyzing fear in a doomed man's eyes as The Scarecrow lifted his scythe above his head.
Kudos: 8





	Behold the Fear Reaper

A young Crane had found the scythe during one of his afternoon walks through the cornfields. As of late he had begun to retreat into the towering stalks more and more frequently, for to Crane they were a private oasis obscured within the small, suffocating town that bore him only forlornity and mockery and a youth already plagued with enough woe to drive a grown man to despair. But it was different in the fields; they seemed to welcome his presence, as if the slight rustling sound of their leaves swaying in the wind were a soft little voice that whispered into the boy's ear to beckon him forward and into their green embrace. In the fields he was free to run unfettered along the dirt paths that weaved through the rows of corn, the radiant yellow sun beaming down to warm the skin of his back beneath his threadbare shirt and a vibrant flush of red splotched across his otherwise-pallid face and the earthy perfume of the crop drifting in the afternoon breeze, his boundless imagination racing at a speed even more swift than the jubilant sprint guiding his wiry legs. Sometimes he was a fearless pirate with a roaring appetite for adventure and an oil-black beard that smelled of matches and spat fiery sparks and emitted ribbons of smoke, the cornfields his endless blue sea to navigate and conquer; on other ventures the fields were his sprawling kingdom and he their brave ruler in search of a monstrous dragon to slaughter, whereupon he would fashion an impenetrable suit of armor from the beast's thick scales and raise its decapitated head high above his own in a display of awe-invoking glory as peasants chanted his name over and over again with trembling devotion.

_All hail King Jonathan! All hail our King!_

Crane loved nothing more than to envision himself in wondrous, elaborate tales of fantasy, for each one granted him the power to be anyone but the lonely boy whose only companions were birthed from the pages of library books and who knew all-too-well the sudden burst of familiar pain blooming at the back of his skull when schoolyard tyrants flung rocks at his defeated, retreating form and laughed, laughed, laughed.

But if any of his bullies were ever to make the mistake of wandering into the fields, where there were so many paths and rows that some passages were foreign even to Crane and where it was so harrowingly easy to find oneself stumbling and lost, there would be no laughter then—not from their lips, at least.

Crane imagined he would laugh plenty enough for the both of them.

It was during the exploration of one such unwalked path that he discovered the scythe, propped up against a weathered scarecrow's post and coated with a layer of rust. Whoever owned it last had clearly abandoned it some time ago. Wary but curious, Crane moved closer to inspect the harvesting tool, fallen cornstalks beneath his feet gasping with a dry _crunch_ as he executed each careful step with the precision and trepidation of a tightrope performer. It was the very deepest part of his imagination, where fictional characters congregated without rein and even the most absurd of dreams seemed possible, that led Crane to believe the scarecrow would shrug free from its ropes and reach down to swipe at him with hands of twig and straw that somehow held enough strength to have been forged from steel. He looked up to meet the scarecrow's hollow gaze, its head a mass of mildewed burlap and crooked thread and tufts of stringy hay, shielded from the sun's blaze by the wide brim of a faded brown hat that had likely perched atop a working man's head for years—decades, even—before being consigned to the fields. For a wild moment Crane swore that he could see the fabric pulsate as if hidden veins pumped blood beneath its surface, spurring his heart to leap with fright and his feet to carry him a clumsy step backwards.

Perhaps the scarecrow was concealing a ghastly secret: it was _not_ a simple decoy stitched together by a farmer's wife and swaddled in old clothes, conceived for the sole purpose of warding off feasting birds and their thoughtless beaks, but a live creature that stepped down from its wooden cross every night to shamble unnaturally through the fields. Perhaps even Crane himself would one day make the grievous error of taking one wrong, fateful turn and become lost among the stalks, wandering helplessly as the betraying sun sank him into darkness, until the perilous midnight hour struck and a strange shuffling noise joined the nighttime choir of crickets to alert the terrified boy to a bloodcurdling truth—he was not alone. Perhaps the scarecrow would then set its sight on Crane with newly-formed eyes, as mesmerizing as a reflection in a murky pool and as black an ear of corn rotted with blight, and before he had a chance to scream Crane would be dragged away into the rows and meet a demise more horrifying than anything he'd ever read.

The shrill _caw_ of a distant bird tore Crane free from his spiraling imagination and grounded him back in reality, where goosebumps had prickled along the flesh of his arms and the scarecrow remained bound to its cross. He knew that he was supposed to feel an uncomfortable sense of embarrassment; had one of his tormentors bore witness to Crane nearly tripping over his own feet as he backed away in fear from a strung-up mass of straw and fabric peppered with black mold, they would most assuredly have laughed at him (they were _always_ laughing at him). But still Crane felt no shame and imposed upon himself no self-admonishment, for the chilling scene his mind conjured had only made him even more curious as to the origins of the mysterious scythe. Who had left it behind, and why?

The patchy markings of corrosion caked along the blade indicated that the scythe had been cast out to the mercy of the elements in an seldom-seen act of neglect; in a town mired in the cycle of generational poverty, scarce few residents could afford to be so careless with their farming equipment. Perhaps the tool's owner had moved away (doubtful—few ever departed alive from the confines of Crane's stuffy little hometown), or perhaps old age and its accompanying decline of vigor had led them to desert the scythe to rot in the fields alongside the memory of younger days gone by, or perhaps the owner was buried six feet deep in the local cemetery alongside a spindly rusted gate and a gnarled willow tree and tombstones so overgrown with weeds that the names carved into their surface had long been forgotten.

Or—in a more fantastical scenario that Crane found rather exciting—perhaps the scythe had not been left behind at all, but instead belonged to the scarecrow, who wielded it as a weapon against those who dared cross their path after dark.

The boy again cast his eyes towards the scarecrow's burlap head, his heart now pounding a wild crescendo in his chest and his mouth suddenly as dry as a spoonful of sand, and before he could stop himself Crane reached forward and grabbed the scythe by its wooden snath.

He waited to feel the sensation of a great force from above slamming down onto his spine, of horrifically-sharp twigs jutting through his skin to pierce his organs, of inescapable tendrils of straw slithering up his shoulders and into his ears to wrap around his brain and tightly squeeze, squeeze, _squeeze_ , as punishment for laying an unworthy finger upon what was not his to touch.

Minutes passed, and still there was no pain; when he finally dared lift his head, Crane saw that the scarecrow had not moved. Perhaps it was not capable of motion, or perhaps its stillness was meant to indicate a simple lack of protest.

Either way, the scythe belonged to Crane now.

He spent the following hours swinging the scythe wildly, pretending the stalks wore the faces of his enemies before slashing away at them as ribbons of green fell to his feet. _Call me “Ichabod” again_ , he thought with the euphoria of a weakling who has at last emerged as a victor, _and the words shall be your last! Laugh at my anguish, and my blade will rid you of your wicked tongue!_

By the time the sky glowed orange to warn of the impending sunset, Crane's breathing had grown ragged from exertion, the muscles of his arms were so sore that it was as if he ached down to the bone, and the palms of his hands were tender and raw where the skin had erupted with fresh blisters. He could not recall when he had last smiled, but now he grinned broadly with either pride or amusement, or perhaps an unpleasant combination of both—what was once a uniform row of emerald leaves and golden ears had been reduced to inelegant sliced tatters, brutalized by a fevered swing of the scythe's blade, the sight of their mangled remains made all the more unnerving by the untouched stalks dancing wholly in the breeze by their side. Crane wondered if this was how it felt to be one of his bullies, to revel in the devastation of something he had torn to pieces simply because he could; he loved the fields, more than anything he had ever loved before in his short and friendless life, and yet he could not help but ruin them when a weapon was placed in his hands.

For this destruction, he felt no guilt—only a hunger for more.

* * *

He was a man now, with a new name and a new life. Like the scarecrow he had discovered in the fields on that warm afternoon so very long ago, Crane had become a symbol of fear, a lithe boogeyman comprised of burlap and stitches and an endless desire to frighten. Years spent dedicated to the study of psychopharmacology had taught him how to rip apart a mind with chemicals, but Crane found that there was no terror more beautiful than the look of pure, paralyzing fear in a doomed man's eyes as The Scarecrow lifted his scythe above his head and smiled a terrible smile beneath his mask before swinging the stained blade to meet blood and bone and cut a helpless scream of horror down to a final gurgling breath.

Sometimes during the nights when he was trapped inside a cell at Arkham, when they wouldn't let him have a book and the cries of the other inmates rattled through the corridor to keep him wide awake and it felt as if he would never know freedom again, Crane retreated deep into his memory and made his way to the fields. Even after all these years, they remained as green as ever.

Only one detail was different. Nailed to the scarecrow's chest was a bat, dark-furred and bulbous and utterly grotesque, pinned wings spread wide as a piercing shriek rang from its open putrid mouth. Something in the nearby cornstalks rustled, and from the corner of his eye Crane caught sight of what looked like a black cape disappearing into the field's endless rows.

Scarecrow wrapped his thin fingers tightly around the scythe, stepped forward into the stalks, and began to reap.


End file.
